


In Poetry

by TheWhoufflePrincess



Series: Whouffle & Whouffaldi One-Shots [8]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, One-Sided Attraction, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-02 12:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13317771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhoufflePrincess/pseuds/TheWhoufflePrincess
Summary: Although he shouldn't pry, he couldn't help but question where Clara went off during her free time, as one day (or night) in the TARDIS, she wasn't in her room, nor in any of the places he had thought. He finds her, finally, in a room of requirement, fast asleep. Around her, three items lay. The Doctor couldn't help but pry.[Suggests a one-sided love from Clara to Eleven, partially, but Twelve has underlying feelings for her. Clara does too.][I'm not sure where this lies, but it's before Danny and they are still unsure about where their relationship stands.]





	In Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to another whouffaldi story.
> 
> I made the last poem, while the other two came from r.h sin, one of my favorite modern poets.
> 
> I do have to make note, Clara does kinda sound like a teenager. Probably because I am. I'm kinda retelling an experience with my friend, minus the romantic interest, kissing, and all that. She found me alone with poetry around me and I took that and made it into this. So sorry if it sounds a little OC.

Regardless of regeneration, the Doctor always felt worried for Clara. 

The difference was, of course, how he showed it. His previous regeneration had let his caring and loving demeanor towards her by kissing her on the top of her forehead, hugging her, and downright standing close to her to keep her near. His stupid bow tie wearing regeneration just couldn't keep himself away, masking himself with love and care, leaving him to clean the mess of when a companion falls for him. 

They had become close during many of the adventures they had gone on, with the tweed little manchild. Then when he changed, he forced himself to shove it down. Clara deserved someone better- someone who wasn’t a complete idiot with a box. Somehow, he managed to ruin their friendship by protecting her. He became colder, harsher, and would refuse any contact. Hugging, a past time of his, was something he denied. 

And he didn’t realize how it affected her until she was in deep. 

It was the small things. If he asked for a tool, her hand would linger ever so slightly. If they ran together, she’d be close to him, as much as possible. If he was excited about something and was telling her, she’d make sure she followed every single word of it. Her eyes -her beautiful brown eyes- showed love and care for him, even if he said stupid things and pushed her away. She wanted him to reciprocate her feelings. It was easy as that, but he just couldn't bring himself to do so. 

One evening, however, it changed everything. He had landed on yet another planet, to fit to Clara's desires. He knew what she liked and wanted to show that he did notice her request to see a Barry Manilow concert, when he was really famous and popular. Yet, the Doctor didn't find her in her bedroom, the library, nor the cinema, where she usually displayed her favorite films and series up on the big screen. He walked back to the TARDIS console, frowning. 

“Where’s Clara?” He asked the reliable ship. Lights flickered on, leading him through a different corridor. He silently thanked the old girl, walking in the direction she was leading him to. After what felt like eternity, he made it to a silver door, without a window to peer inside. He pressed on the door, but it didn’t open. He raised an eyebrow.

”Is there something wrong?” He asked the ceiling. A hum. “No? Then why aren’t you letting me in?” A slight change in the sound. “You led me in here, only to lock me out?” Yet another subtle change of the hum. “Please?” The door clicked open and he allowed himself in. 

Ah.

If one were to describe this room, they’d probably say a tornado went through it. That tornado, was Clara Oswald, in all her glory. She sat in the very middle. Oh, Doctor, what have you done? 

She does not stir, fast asleep in the comfort of herself. In front of her, there was a lovingly used crimson notebook, several books from several modern day poets, with most of them being r.h sin, and lastly, a simple mechanical pencil. He recognized it as TARDIS made. Sleek design with a perfect grip and it never ran out of lead. The perfect companion for any writer. 

This was a room of requirement. The TARDIS can always create many rooms at a whim, and if either of them desired it, they could always request for one, use it, then delete the room. No evidence involved. That was why the Doctor had to ask the TARDIS kindly as well as the hesitancy that came from her. It was Clara’s own safe place, before she had to go back to the real world. It seems his two favorite women were in good graces, at least. He crouched down and picked up a book of poetry first.

They were heavy, different bits of poetry from different time periods. Most were 21st century, then a book of just classical poems. A piece of him automatically dictated it as childish, but he shook the thought away. Clara was a fragile person, even after everything that had happened. R.h Sin was the author of many of the books. He looked at the title of the first one, it was about the size of his palm, entitled,  _a beautiful composition of broken_. Some points of the book had sticky notes. He flipped to a page. There was heavy editing from her part.

"at 7:22 pm., to my love.

 

will you miss me when i’m gone

what will the ~~room~~ (TARDIS) sound like

without my voice

what will the ~~room~~ (TARDIS) smell like

without my scent

 

my random sayings 

my cough

my laughter

(my eyes that inflate)

(my screams when we run)

 

me yelling when angry

the sound of me weeping

when sad

 

my smile

will you miss it

my lips, my tongue

the kissing (that I wish we did)

 

when i  ~~vanish into air~~  (die, because dammit, I know I will)

will you  ~~care~~  (even acknowledge my disappearance)

will you  ~~grieve~~  (move on)

(will you lose all sense of sanity)

 

will you stay here 

in this  ~~home~~  (TARDIS)

or will my absence

 ~~make you leave~~  (mean nothing to you)

 

all i ask is that  ~~you remember~~  

(you run you clever boy and be a doctor)

and that you never forget about me

(but i know that you will)

(i am not important, a blip on the radar)

(so I hope, that i do not forget about you.)”

He notes how the words have changed, strikethroughs made by Clara with the lead pencil, as well as added words. He finds himself flipping to another page. He wants to know what she changes, what happens. If he was a friend, these changes would mean nothing. But to the Doctor, they meant everything.

" _Monday after 6._

 

awkwardness and tension

short questions met with short answers

communicating without communication

or comprehension

no understanding

 

we are no longer

who we were before

neither friend nor foe

nothing, no one

just two strangers

who used to know

one another."

He sees the words she has written on the paper, despite the lack of changes in this poem. There is no need to change; everything on it is what has been occurring between them. They are short, but they hold something he was just too blind to see.  _'We are no longer her Doctor and his Clara. It is just the Doctor and a stranger.'_  Oh Clara, if only she knew that everything she thinks is untrue. There were many more pages with heavy editing. He closes the book and picks up the crimson book. He is too deep in to avoid prying anymore. He opens and skims the pages. The first few are notes, birthdays, and dates that she'd like to remember. He smiles fondly when he sees, _'March 30th, 2013 - a man in a monk costume came for me.'_  then, he frowns as a few dates later,  _'December 25th, 2013 - he changed, he left me. sent me away. I should be angry. His demeanor has changed. He is not the man I knew.'_  

He goes a few pages ahead, also noting the definition of limerence is highlighted and circled multiple times. Limerence, he recalls randomly overhearing from a psychology class, meant the state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically experienced involuntarily and characterized by a strong desire for reciprocation of one's feelings but not primarily for a sexual relationship. Is this what she felt?

He flips to the most recent page. It's a poem in blue ink, freshly written. Her pencil must also be able to turn to pen too. It was a deep shade of blue, like the TARDIS.

" _good man_

 

you asked me

if you were a good man

and i have no response

 

every adventure

has always been a fighting match

the once friendly bantering

becomes full on fighting

 

who's going to win

who will snap

who will lose?

 

doctor, doctor

at the end of everything

i hope that we will talk

before someone says something wrong."

He felt eyes staring at him as he finished that last bit. He peered up to Clara, her eyes inflating and brown eyes hinting the feeling of betrayal, but no words are said from either party. He feels himself start to want to correct the bits of the poem, cringing internally over the 21st century vibe he got, since, as a English teacher, he expected more. Looking back down at it, he supposes, Clara was vulnerable, or perhaps still is,. This was the release she chose, rather than self-destruction and fail herself. If she was going to lose it, she'd lose it her way. Poetry in this style, was just how she chose to do it. 

"What are you doing?" She asked softly and it is not an accusation. It was a genuine question, "The TARDIS had assured me you wouldn't be able to come here. Room of requirement, she said."

"I was worried," he looked back to the crimson notebook he was holding and placed it down. 

"Really?" It was a query he was surprised to hear. She said it as though she genuinely could not believe it. Did he really distance himself so far that she didn't even now if he cared? 

"Yes," he responded firmly, "I was. I still am. Clara, what's wrong?"

"You tell me, Doctor." Her responses were surprising him. The way she sounded, the voice she retreated to- it was so unlike her. It was different. Where was his brave heart Clara? Did he make her this way?

"Clara," he murmured gently, "I won't know unless you tell me." 

"You read my changes. You saw what I had written."

"And I don't understand it." He cringes slightly at the lameness of the response, but it was true. 

"For a two thousand year old alien, you're really dense," Ah, she was starting to get a bit snarky now, sounding a bit like herself, "Or do you just want me to say it so you don't have to admit it?"

"Clara..."

"Christ, Doctor, I wish you'd just notice how I feel. It isn't that hard. Look at me like a problem, like you always have. I've given you enough clues."

"Clara, I've never looked at you like a problem." He said gently, cautious. She was clearly vulnerable still. She would never think of herself this lowly.

Or was he so caught up in himself that he didn't really notice?

"You did before. I thought I was solved. Now you just analyze me like you don't really understand me, even though I've been traveling with you for so long." Clara muttered, "It's so hard sometimes, to listen what you say. I shouldn't care, but I do. I didn't think I would." She glanced down to the books and notebook. "I took what I had overheard from the nurse: write down my feelings, get them out of the way so they don't get us in trouble while on a planet. Saving a planet is much more important."

"Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara." He murmured her name, "Do you think that I care for you so little that your feelings wouldn't matter to me?" This regeneration seemed to have problems in terms of how to speak. He had much more to say, in response to all of this. 

"It always seems like they don't. You send out mixed signals, Doctor." That was true. 

"Clara, I did that to protect you."

"You were bloody rubbish at that. Protect me from what? Gaining feelings for you?" When the Doctor did not deny it, she scoffed, "Trust me, Doctor, I already have."

He found himself speaking without really thinking, "I didn't claim your heart. Bowtie did, the much younger looking one that you liked. It wasn't me." He pointed a finger to himself. She winced at his brutal wording, then scoffed again, her doe eyes looking even wider now. The Doctor stared, slightly confused.

"Let there be no mistake, Doctor, no matter which regeneration you are, you've always claimed my heart. Sure, your last one was who I met first, but that doesn't mean my love for you does not transfer. I've seen all of you. Every single one of you." Her proclamation of love caused his cheeks to tint bright pink. He shifted in his position, knowing both of them were contemplating what could happen.

The thing was, Clara just happened to lean in first.

She pushed a hand into his gray curls as she pulled him closer. He tentatively kissed her cherry lips, the taste of strawberry chapstick surprising him, as she opened her mouth to him immediately. He darted a daring tongue in. She sighed in his mouth, before letting go. Curse the human necessity for air.

"And let there be no mistake that I want you. I always have and still do." Clara assured, her eyes never leaving his. Ah, his distancing must have felt like a rejection. Oh Doctor, now you're in too deep. He tentatively brought her close and hugged her, properly. Screw his initial dislike for hugging. Her small frame fit perfectly with his as she welcomed the hug gratefully. He should have just faced the facts, the ones he had been ignoring all the time. 

He loved Clara Oswald. 

And damn the universe to hell if anything was going to happen to her under his protection. 

**Author's Note:**

> ending is a bit bland, but eh. I've been working on this for awhile and I finally finished it. Might as well, you know?


End file.
